


A Caelo Usque Ad Centrum

by Devilc



Series: Ad Altiora Tendo -- I strive towards higher things [9]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: First Time, History, Ireland, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 08:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16215056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: Just before full dark comes on, they find a half-ruined croft in a small clearing in the woods.  It looks to have been attacked and partly burnt down earlier in the year.  He sends a quick prayer heavenwards after he dismounts and ducks, sword drawn, under what's left of the thatched roof.





	A Caelo Usque Ad Centrum

**Author's Note:**

> Pilgrimage is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.

_A Caelo usque ad centrum -- From the sky to the center_

* * *

Just before full dark comes on, they find a half-ruined croft in a small clearing in the woods. It looks to have been attacked and partly burnt down earlier in the year. He sends a quick prayer heavenwards after he dismounts and ducks, sword drawn, under what's left of the thatched roof. It takes his eyes a moment to adjust, but with the last bit of light that comes in he can see that nobody has been here in some time, and the place has mostly been picked clean. But what's left of the roof holds well enough and will keep the rain off, even let them have a small fire.

He steps out, helps Diarmuid scramble down, and guides him and the horse inside.

Diarmuid sets about scavenging half burnt bits of wood and furniture for a fire while he unsaddles the horse and sets about rubbing it down with the sail cloth.

"I wonder who lived here." Diarmuid's voice is just audible over the sound of the rain, which has finally begun to slacken. He's setting stones in place to make a fire ring. "What drove them to this place?" His hands scrape earth aside as he lays in a few bits of wood and some dried rushes. "Was it a hermit?" He reaches for the flint and steel.

He wants to reply, "Whoever it was, they were a fool to think they could survive, that their remoteness would be protection enough. These are disputed lands, full of wolves that go on two legs, and no amount of wishing will change that." Instead, he throws a double handful of oats into the cauldron and fills it with water from his skin. The horse needs to eat, but this should hold it until it can graze and drink properly. He takes the bit from its mouth and uses the reins to make a hobble before he sets the food in front of it. The exhausted and hungry animal dives right in.

Diarmuid has gotten a decent fire going, but giving the cauldron over to the horse means a meal of cheese and water for him and Diarmuid as they sit in their wet clothes in front of the fire. He finds a few pegs in the wall and hangs their sodden cloaks to drip and dry a bit, but the rain soaked them both through. It will take the wool weeks to get fully dry again. 

He eats his cheese slowly, careful not to stare at the flames and become blinded to anything or anyone that might enter. Only the most desperate would be out on a night like this, and this croft is well off the road, but old habits die hard.

He and Diarmuid gather the remaining dry rushes and straw and make a bed out of them as best they can. He's dreading the moment when it comes, but they must share their heat as they sleep. He shakes out the sail cloth, spreads it over, and tops it with the quarter cloak and surcoat taken from two of the men they killed. That leaves a greatcloak lined with linen from the horse's rider and their own no longer quite so wet cloaks for covering as they strip to their loin cloths and hang their clothes to dry a bit overnight. The chill sets his teeth to chattering, but he puts another large handful of oats and more water in the cauldron for the horse, who wickers softly in reply.

"Hurry!" Diarmuid hisses, already tucked beneath the layers of cloaks, and on the side of the pallet closest to the fire, "I'm freezing!" 

His fingers feel like wood as he takes hold of their covers, and he can't stop his own gasp as he climbs under the sodden and chilly wool.

Diarmuid is on him in an instant, all gooseflesh, skin like ice, and his next gasp is only partly due to the cold of Diarmuid's skin.

They stay like that for a few moments, skin to skin, his arms holding Diarmuid close, desperate for some bit of shared warmth. As soon as his teeth stop chattering, Diarmuid kisses him, and this time there is no doubt about what steals his breath away. 

When they break, he stays Diarmuid's lips with his finger and studies him by the light of the flickering fire. He wants this more than he can say, and yet he fears it, and the changes it will set in motion.

"I …" Diarmuid's voice trails off. He swallows hard and starts again. "I know how it was between some of our brothers." 

He smiles in reply. Yes, he figured that out, too. Not that they were careless, but living and working closely sometimes means … knowing things … whether you sought them out or not.

"I have tried not to want it, " Diarmuid continues. "I have asked for a different cross to bear. I have tried to be grateful to just spend time with you, to treasure your friendship as the gift it is." Something in his great dark eyes hardens and his voice drops as he continues, "But I am done with this endless aching, and I think so are you."

A part of him that had lain dormant until just recently -- a dark part filled with fear-fueled ferociousness -- says to roll Diarmuid over, pin him in place, and take him with such savageness that Diarmuid will never ask this of him (or anyone) ever again.

(A part of him recoils horror at the thought of doing such a thing, and especially to Diarmuid.)

Instead, he cups Diarmuid's face with his right hand, and feather light, strokes his thumb across the soft skin of Diarmuid's cheekbone, as yet unweathered by the sun or a harsh climate, before he lifts his head and claims Diarmuid's mouth.

As much as he relishes the feeling of Diarmuid's body laid atop his, he rolls them side by side after a moment, and strokes his hand down Diarmuid's side, delighting in the feel of smooth skin over sleek muscle, before he trails it down to the top of Diarmuid's loincloth. Sticking a finger just under the edge, he trails it groundward -- drawing a sharp breath from Diarmuid -- brushing the back of his hand across the fluttering muscles of Diarmuid's belly until he reaches his navel and the line of crisp hairs leading downward. They tickle his knuckles as he slides his hand back and forth, drawing a breathy "oh!" from Diarmuid.

He pauses a moment before he tugs, and Diarmuid shifts and guides his hand to where the edge is tucked, and their hands bang against each other in their combined haste to remove the bit of linen.

And, at last, his hand grasps Diarmuid, who shudder-hisses at the touch and two strokes later, with a shocked cry, Diarmuid trembles and spends hard and messy between them.

"I'm - I'm - sor--" Diarmuid starts as soon as he can catch his breath, but he shushes him, using his free hand to work his own loincloth loose and guide Diarmuid's hand to him. To his amusement, he doesn't last much longer than Diarmuid did, and in a way it makes him feel almost that young again. By the time he's caught his breath, Diarmuid is once more hard and ready to go, leaking all over in his eagerness.

It happens more slowly this time and he gets to experiment with varying his stroke in response to the little keening noises Diarmuid makes, but in the end, he works him fast and a little roughly -- which Diarmuid likes if the endless stream of disjointed babble from his lips is any clue -- and feels Diarmuid stiffen and swell just that last bit more before jerking his hips and flooding his hand.

The light of the fire is just enough for him to see Diarmuid's eyes go wide with astonishment when he licks his hand clean, savoring the salty bitterness, and he can see the wheels turning in Diarmuid's mind, see him working to find words, so he pecks him on the lips to quiet him. There will be time for talk tomorrow.

There will be no standing watch tonight -- he figures the horse will make a noise at the sound of any approach. He rolls Diarmuid over and curls around him, sharing heat, and after a few moments he can feel himself falling … falling … falling ….


End file.
